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Age of Mythology: An RP of the Greek Heroic Age

@Dead Cruiser If you're going to roll with this, it better be good. :)

@Dragon Witch Excellent, and good to have you here! I'd go more with 'Germanic' than Norse, only as the Norse as a people didn't exist for quite some time yet.

@Blackbeard@shaitarn@Rosalind

I'll get an OOC up soon for those we have here, and if anyone else would be interested then please feel free to say so/apply.

Gods be kind.

Survival | Dystopian | Not for the weak

I....am...in.

In fact, you would have to try extremely hard to keep me away.

Muhaha-hahaha...aaaaaaaaaaahhahahar! ;)

Warhammer 40K: Task Squad

Appia...Maria...did her best to look interested in the vast quantities of information that were being given to them by this aid of the Governors. It was not all that hard, in fact it had become as simple as breathing to control her facial muscles, each and every one of them, and to now keep her face in a constant state of pious thoughtfulness was as easy and unconscious as blinking. The reason she had to try and look interested, as if she had never heard or seen this information before, was that she had! Everything being regurgitated to the group now she already knew, every question that they might have a question about it was likely that she also knew the answer to, the Officio Assassinorum being nothing if not thorough in the briefing of their operatives.

Things seemed to be going reasonably well thus far; she was here, she was now a part of the group, and from what she could tell she was under suspicion from at least a couple of her temporary comrades, although most of that attention was given to the more obvious elephant in the room, which came in the rather disconcerting form of their psyker. Not to say that the hulking brute known as 'Homn' was any less of an abomination, the tech-adept leading it like some form of macabre hunting dog on a leash.

"Master Silverlain," spoke the Callidus agent through her mouthpiece, the voice of Maria as soft as angels taking flight, "I am but a healer, and here in just such a capacity," she smile, "but as a devout servant of the God-Emperor..." the sign of the Aquila crossed her chest, "...I am curious as to why such a rebel, such a threat to the Imperium as this 'Rolf Devran', would be allowed to live?" Her eyelids fluttered in a most innocent and ignorant way, yet not so much that it seemed over-the-top, "should he not instead be purged? His soul given the Emperor's mercy?"

It amused her inside that she really did not care as to the answer, she would do her duty and that was the end of it, but she knew that the question was one hovering like a question mark above the group. Then again, she was wondering how Sherpa would defend his masters position on allowing a man like Rolf, clearly a nusiance and an outright rebel, to remain breathing while all his underlings - as well as the misguided common folk who had taken up with him - were fair game.

Star Wars - Jedi Exile - Knights of the Last Republic

The cool feel of smooth metal beneath his touch gave way to the rougher, more regularly spaced out, grip of the lightsaber hilt, as he moved his three-fingered appendage to rest comfortably on the instrument of his devotion once more; sitting his backside once more on to his heels - rocking into the position with constantly practiced ease - the Kel Dor Jedi, stripped down to the waist inside the confines of his personal chambers, yet his crimson skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, focused again on the varying pops and gaseous hisses of the audio recording that was playing over and over again. To any outsider it would seem to be just that, random noises of the most queer type, but to T'ish it was what his people considered to be a relaxing form of music. Indeed, anyone familiar with the naming conventions of Kel Dor would realise that even his own name, T'ish Keth, was no more than a sound caused by the atmospheric phenomena of his hazily remembered home world. Why should their music be much different?

For several hours now he had been there, surrounded on all sides by the walls of his chamber and enveloped in complete darkness, the semi-soft surface of a floor mattress placed beneath his knees allowing some of the strain from such a position to be mildly alleviated. Not only had he blotted all light from his room, a chamber no wider than four men abreast, no longer than two on one another's shoulders, but he had also removed his protective goggles from his black eyes and effectively blinded himself for the duration of his training. Such exercises as he now practiced, alone and with only the Force for company, were commonly done using blindfolds, but when one could make oneself temporarily blind, then what need was there for superfluous and rudimentary aids.

Another deep breath rumbled within him, filtering in through his breather mask and winding its way down into his naval area, swirling there like some moving ball of energy waiting to be released, in his minds eye a visual representation of this feeling helping to further the experience. Focus such as this was key, the Force being all around, yet so rarely harnessed by others for anything other than what T'ish considered to be acrobatic tricks and frivolous wastes of movement, energy and concentration. He had come to such conclusions during his study of Form Four, his least favoured of the saber forms by far, and rarely incorporated the sweeping and leaping movements and manoeuvres of Ataru into his training sessions.

As he let the breath back out he was already in motion, muscles within his legs coiling and then unwinding like a spring, the lightsaber hilt almost leaping into his hand and igniting into the concentrated beam of blue energy as he performed a flawless horizontal slash - designed to strike directly across the abdomen or torso of the opponent in one fluid slash - shifting the weapon into an overhead grip and bringing it down vertically. During this latter movement he took to one knee, imagining the lightsaber cutting from head to groin, stopping the humming blade a mere inch from the floor of the chamber and feeling the last vapours of the channelled energy leaving his half-tensed body; by the time he even thought of this, his saber was already deactivated and returned to his side, such was the way of the drawing cut.

Something was wrong though, something, for his last blow had been a fraction off to the left of where he knew his foe would be...he was never a fraction off, to the left or to the right. Something inside now concerned the Kel Dor, his shoulders rising and falling to the rhythm of his breathing, his concentration now momentarily lost, but the reason as to exactly why he felt uneasy alluding him.

He had to find Jasma, the precise reason why being unknown even to him, but all he knew was that he must find his Padawan and he must remain with her.

Darkness, all was darkness.

Age of Mythology: An RP of the Greek Heroic Age

N/A

The Nemedian Chronicles: A Hyborian Age/Conan RP

@Dead Cruiser Did you mean something like this?

Posted this five days ago, and so far not much interest...as you can see.

Devils For Hire; Broken Nation

Post confirmed.

Devils For Hire; Broken Nation

Jungle...why did it have to be jungle? thought Alastair to himself from his seat in the 'Eagle', his eyes having not even blinked for at least five minutes as he let his mind run over the information that Baskerville - an old buddy from the SAS, and a damn good pilot to boot - was feeding them all. He would have been fine in sleet, rain, gales and fog, in mountains or urban environments, even in arctic conditions, but he hated jungles with all his Scottish heart! They were humid, buzzing with insects, and in spite of being involved in numerous jungle conflicts, he had never gotten used to them.

All around him were seated his comrades-in-arms, the Devils as they called themselves, five of the finest professional killers and mercenaries available this side of the Angel Protocols. He was the oldest of them, as if he needed further reminding by his own subconscious, but showed no outside signs of stopping any time soon - although inside his own mind, at least, it was a different story; one could only see so much war, death and ruin without it having some form of hold on you. It was thoughts such as these that he kept buried deep, deep, deep down inside, thoughts that might one day surface and send him into a spiral of self-destruction.

Without thinking he gave his load-out another perfunctory glance over, making sure each weapon was loaded and his knife was within easy reach. It was also at this point, dressed as he was in only jungle-pattern fatigues, a bush-hat, and without any armour whatsoever covering his body, that he was alerted once more to the fact that he was one of only two members of the Devils who forwent the use of any cybernetics or exo-suits to help in their duties of dealing death to their foes; the other member of the team in a similar boat was the not unattractive Magpie, their resident South African sharpshooter, although she seemed to do abhor cybernetics for differing reasons than he did.

Let's be honest, he knew he was a relic of bygone era, of a time when warfare was conducted without the need for such enhancements. Like the musket or the cavalryman, he was from a time when ones skill came from determined training, girt, and and endurance of the mind over the limitations of the body. His gear only helped with this image - his VIRTUS armour, for example, having been a new prototype over a decade before this current mission, now already taken out of service and replaced with better and more advanced forms of body armour.

Pffft, he grunted inside sod the lot of them.

”...hit em hard. Hit em quick. The earlier you get out, the less we have to worry about Mr Cortez and his tendencies."

Claymore raised his carbine to his shoulder, taking a knee in the soft earth of the jungle, as soon as they disembarked from the slowly shrinking transport. He focused down the optics and allowed himself time to become better acquainted with the surroundings, opening his ears and his nostrils more than his eyes, scanning every treeline and possible observation spot around them.

Not long after allowing himself to relax to a point of flexible alertness, his earpiece crackled and the voice of the seasoned Brazilian known as Cheetah filled the silence of the jungle.

”Hey Claymore." He said in a low tone. "How you wanna run this?"

"Don't be loud, that's all I'm gonna say. I don't know about you, but I wanna enjoy this payday on mother earth, not up there with the angels and the Big Guy."

The Scotsman gave another small sigh, only having so much patience for the loud-mouthed Italian and his quips, something he believed must be some form of nervous defense mechanism when it came to the young Devil.

"First we need to get a lock on that tracker," grunted the stoic soldier into the mic of his headset, "I'll leave that to one of your servo-heads and your fancy suits." He took a deep breath and pondered a moment longer, "Specter and Jackal, you're our forward scouts on this one, spread out, keep your eyes and ears open and your movements quiet. Me and Cheetah will bring up the centre, with the good Doctor at our side, and Magpie will act as rearguard and supporting fire."

It was a common enough 'play', one they had practiced and used before, and at least for the moment it did not hurt to do the familiar.

"Doctor," he directed at the Russian cyber genius, "if you feel like having one of your toy robots give us a birds-eye view, then please do by all means. Just make sure to keep it low and out of sight of potential threats. I'll leave the choice up to you, just don't get us all killed."

Falling back into silence, he waited for everyone to acknowledge that they had understood, and for someone to get to grips with the location of that tracking device and the apparent location of their quarry.

Age of Mythology: An RP of the Greek Heroic Age

No-one else wishes to arm wrestle a Centaur, stab a Cyclops in the eye with a hunting spear, or slap Zeus in the scrotum? Yet I see a plethora of 'demi-God' and 'mythology' inspired fantasy RP's on this site?! Does classical antiquity, the source of the first true fantasy tales not exicte? Are you not entertained!

"It's inside of us all..." - WH40K Chaos-based/Black Crusade RP

@KingfisherLet's be honest here...who does not want to join an RP where your character could end up growing extra limbs, sacrificing virgins, and becoming a Daemon? No sane person, clearly.